


Solemnity

by SaltCastle



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alien Invasion, Captivity, Choking, End of the World, Fisting, Gang Rape, M/M, Mirror Sex, Parent/Child Incest, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Shapeshifting, Tentacle Rape, Xeno, mention of watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-10-26 08:47:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20739470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaltCastle/pseuds/SaltCastle
Summary: I’ve been told human parents want what’s best for their kids.





	Solemnity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eidetic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eidetic/gifts).

The dotting worried Chris more than the changes to his body, more than his imprisonment, more than the ending of the fucking world.

The claws on his skin barely scratched him. The teeth didn’t break his skin. The fucking slowed down, then it stopped.

Then they let him sleep.

* * *

When he woke up, his stomach was flat and his body didn’t feel like it had endured months of abuse. (To be fair, it hadn’t felt like that before either. They had stuffed him full of cock, fucked his ass open, licked him with barbed tongues, inside and out, fisted him, spat and pissed in him, and his body had bounced back. His mind had bounced back. They say people are resilient like grass, always ready to rise up after being flattened to the ground. He wasn’t exactly grateful for that flexibility now.) He was well rested. Back home, he’d say he was ready to take on another day.

Here, he tried the door. Closed, of course. He avoided looking at a small circular window in the wall on the opposite side of the room and instead went back to his cot to lie down. The ceiling was blindingly white. It hurt his eyes. He closed them and when that didn’t help, he rubbed at them angrily and got up. Five steps to the window. He put his palm to the cold glass, took a deep breath, and looked outside.

Down there, across miles and miles of space, the Earth still burned.

An exaggeration, of course. He couldn’t _see_ it burning. The Earth looked like it always had on photos from space, green-blue and big and peaceful. But it burned. Oh how it burned, the whole expanse of it, cities and deserts and forests and seas. 

And people. People burned, too, tall, living firebrands. Screaming.

All this time, he hadn’t wondered how many had survived. He wasn’t going to start now.

* * *

At a guess, he’d gotten four days of peace. At the very least, he’d fallen asleep four times. The cot fed him, this much he’d figured out. Some transdermal technology, probably, as he’d never found any punctures or injections sites after he’d woken up. Sound impossible? Well. Welcome to his life.

On what passed for the fourth day in his mind, the door opened and one of them stepped inside. Big fellow, covered in fur, with a snout like a fucking armadillo on steroids, six arms and two legs like tree-trunks. His cock jutted out, already swollen. Small mercy that he had only the one.

Chris hadn’t seen him before, but it didn’t mean much. His assailants changed—as in, the participants in his rape changed, one coming in after another to feed him his cock and fuck him in the ass, but also every one of them changed, twisted, turned into something else, sometimes while he was taking them, cocks growing larger inside his body, tentacles sprouting out from places where mouths used to be, claws and teeth sharpening.

He’d taken them all and he would take this one, too.

He ended up pressed into a wall by the window, legs spread, strong thighs under his ass keeping him in place. The tip of the cock pressing into him was blunt and wide. Chris felt tight like a virgin after the cot therapy and it was—a lot. Too much.

He was determined not to scream. Screaming attracted them. Made them curious. Made them more likely to enter his room, more eager to look from up close. To push fingers and tongues alongside cocks that already were too long and too wide. Chris would rather it didn’t happen now. He still groaned when the alien—he’d never called them aliens before, although that was exactly what they were: big aliens, big spaceships on the Earth’s suddenly narrow sky. He didn’t like this sign of reality rearranging itself inside his mind—snapped his hips and filled him up. When the alien’s rhythm sped up, Chris pushed a fist into his mouth.

It didn’t help. 

It didn’t help because the alien’s cock had _nodules_; it felt like being fucked by a massage roller and Chris moaned around his fist with every push, every drag of them inside his body. And it didn’t help because the door had been left open and soon they had an audience anyway, several different forms, all with too eager eyes. Chris saw them over the shoulder of the one fucking him. They were stroking their cocks.

At least, the first fuck didn’t last very long.

The alien grunted, his cock pulsed in Chris’s ass, nodules rolling and pressing into him in a thousand places at once, and then Chris was slumping down with come dripping down his thighs.

And then he was being turned onto all fours. One of the other creatures grabbed him by his hair and with that leverage, it thrust easily into his hole. Another pushed two clawed fingers inside his mouth. Chris opened up immediately. He knew how it went. He’d fought once. Enough.

They used him rougher than ever before, as if all the forced, quote unquote, gentleness from his pregnancy―and he’d also never called it pregnancy before even though he most definitely had been pregnant. He supposed he had a child now. Another thing to never think about―made them thirsty for blood.

Cocks slid in and out of his body like to be open for them was his sole purpose in life. His thighs were sticky with sweat―and more than sweat―his hole sloppy, his face, tongue, throat, hair painted with come. He’d been fucked by a creature made of scales and spikes. By a monster with two cocks, intertwined when they pushed it, expanding inside. Now he had two tentacles in his ass; they moved in opposite directions, pushing him up and dragging him down the floor. At least nothing was fucking his mouth. Chris rested his cheek against the cold tile. A tentacle slapped his ass. A suction cup left a bruise on his cheek. It felt like nettle against his skin, from his childhood spent outside in the fields. The recollection almost made him smile.

* * *

He floated in that memory for what seemed like a long time. He was aware of the tentacles in his ass, of the way the creature climbed higher and higher over his legs and thighs to fuck him rougher and rougher―and at the same he wasn’t aware of it at all. His hands sank into a nettle clump. The air smelled fresh and green. His palms stung. 

His back stung where it was lashed. Chris’s awareness snapped back: his room―his cell―the cold tiles, the fucking, and a pair of feet standing by his head, a hand with the lash. Very human feet. Very human hand. He lifted his head from the floor, dragged his eyes up the man’s lithe body, dressed in a robe barely held together by a belt, his long neck, his face.

His face that looked like Chris’s face. 

Or rather, like Chris’s face ten years ago, just as the man’s body looked ten years younger than Chris’s, stronger and firmer and more fit, but there was no denying it: he was the spitting image of Chris. Only his eyes were molten gold and inhuman and his mouth had a cruel twist to it.

No, Chris thought just as the man said, "Hello, Dad." Then he opened up his robe. No, Chris thought again. No. 

The man made a gesture with his left hand and the tentacles fucking him retreated. That should’ve been a relief, but no, it wasn’t a relief at all, not with the way Chris’s body stayed open, welcoming, lax. Chris’s knees gave in and he fell fully to the floor. The man grabbed him by his hair, took a step, another. He dragged Chris to the cot with surreal ease, chatting animatedly like a five-year-old. "They were so happy you were finally ready for use again! They probably went a bit overboard, but we’ll fix you in no time at all." His voice was the creepiest thing Chris had heard in his life. "Oh. Just remembered. You don’t know. My name is John."

Chris somehow doubted it. Although it was better than _son_

John sat down on the mattress and put Chris’s hands on both sides of his hips. His hard cock poked Chris in the cheek. Chris jerked his head away.

The mattress whirred; two manacles emerged and cuffed him to the cot. Almost immediately, he felt his head clear, his body mend, even his asshole tighten.

John stroke his hair.

He kept stroking it as the tentacle creature creeped up behind Chris; Chris felt its slimy touch on the backs of his thighs, on his ass, on the rim of his hole. He lurched, trying to get away, but John’s hand tightened in his hair and the creature held his hips and he was being mounted again. 

"They love you," John said. "Usually we don’t reuse our subjects. But such enthusiasm is hard to come by." He traced Chris’s lips with his thumb. "It made me curious."

A tentacle prodded at his rim. A pointy, slithery tip, circled his hole. Chris groaned through his gritted teeth. The creature settled against his back and fucked into him with enough force he’d have been pushed into John if John hadn’t had such a strong grip on his head.

"You’re beautiful like that," John observed, almost clinical, and held his cock to Chris’s lips. Chris shuddered, kept his jaw clenched. The tentacles slid in and out of him. One was cupping his balls from behind. John cupped his cheek. "Don’t behave like that. I’ve been told human parents want what’s best for their kids." Again with the creepy voice. Chris felt sick. "Don’t you wanna make me feel good, Dad?" Chris shook his head. John laughed, wildfire on a steppe. "Fine. We’ll do it the hard way." 

He clenched his fist. The air was knocked out of Chris, who couldn’t breathe. At all. His throat—empty. His lungs—empty. His mind—empty. Except for the panic. And here he’d thought he didn’t want to live. On instinct he opened his mouth; John pushed in. 

He had a very human cock. It felt almost normal on Chris’s tongue and deeper, in his throat, when John pressed Chris’s face into his crotch with a hand behind his neck. He still didn’t release his hold on Chris’s airways and didn’t seem in a hurry at all.

Chris’s vision began to swim. He flailed his arms. The tentacles jammed into his ass for the final time and pulsed inside. John kept a steady slow rhythm.

He fucked Chris’s face lazily, his hips barely twitching as he pushed them up and up, the base of his cock stretching Chris’s lips, the head sliding over his tongue to hit the back of his throat. He was moaning, barely intelligible, but Chris recognized one word. 

_Dad_.

He blacked out.

* * *

Chris didn’t wake up alone. Someone was in his room with him. They radiated heat. Chris knew he’d bump into them if he stretched his legs.

"I must admit, I kind of get it now. Why they love you," John said and moved. Their knees brushed. "I think I kind of get _you_ now."

Chris could almost hear a smile in his voice. He opened his eyes."Who are you?"

John was sitting on the cot, propped by the wall; his hands had turned gold and were catching light. "You know who I am. Would you like me to remind you of the time when your body accommodated me inside you? It was—"

"No," Chris snapped. Turned his head. "No," he repeated softer. And then, because he couldn’t take it anymore, he said, "You’re five days old."

"Time’s relative." John shrugged, kicking Chris’s hip. "Get on the floor. Hands and knees, ass high in the air." His eyes were shining with a too bright gleam.

Chris got on the floor. His body didn’t feel like it belonged to him anymore. It listened to him, but barely. It was hardly worth it to fight anything—but this especially. 

This inevitability. This fucking that came like tides. This sick togetherness, the bond, the common blood.

John stepped up behind him. He snapped his fingers and the wall in front of them turned into a mirror. Chris could see them now: he on his knees, folded, obedient like a child. Behind him John. His son. Standing tall and proud.

John pushed his thumbs into his hole, both at the same time. A current popped Chris’s spine tight. Their eyes locked in the mirror. John licked his lips. "Keep looking," he said and started stretching Chris out.

Chris hung his head down, panting. Between his legs, his own cock. He’d almost forgotten he had one. Now it was stirring to life.

John groaned. "Nice. Almost like fucking yourself." He twisted his thumbs, pulled out, pushed four outstretched fingers into Chris, half of his fist, his whole fist.

It should hurt; it only felt like being full.

John put his other hand between Chris’s shoulder blades. "Do you know what your name means?" His voice sounded strained. His fist was fucking in and out of Chris. Chris shook his empty head. The only thing that existed was the pressure inside. "Bearing Christ." A breathless laughter followed by twisting of the hand in him. "Are you feeling as if you have a god inside?" John pulled his fist out, pushed his cockhead against Chris’s hole. "Do you?" 

"No," Chris managed. Truthful, in the most part. He lifted his head. "Is that why you choose a biblical name, too?"

John didn’t answer him, but he did push inside.

In the mirror, Chris saw himself open his mouth on a silent _oh_. He saw John laugh, his blinding, elongated teeth. Wings stretched out behind his back, as gold as his eyes, as wide as all the space between here and the Earth. He fucked Chris with sharp, shallow thrusts, too quick to be human, too precise.

Too overwhelming.

Chris moaned, helpless against the onslaught of sensations. John's form shifted from human to angel to dragon to wolf. To everything beyond and in between.

"You like this," the dragon said.

His cock had grown two sizes inside Chris. With every push and pull it stretched out his rim more.

"You were made for this," the wolf said.

His jaw didn't move. Chris heard him inside his head. One might say it was easier this way.

"You're mine," the bird say.

Blood dripped from his beak and stained Chris's hair fiery red. Like a flaming sword.

"Mine," the bull said.

Chris couldn't even think: no. He managed to shake his head.

"Fine," the monster laughed, black fur, red eyes, teeth like knives. "You won't get to come."

It was a lie. Chris came with John's lithe body pulling him up and against his chest, John's long fingers wrapped around his cock, John's face pressed against his neck. John licked a stripe from Chris's ear to his jaw, then he pulled out and spilled half on the floor, half on Chris's thighs, adding to the mess in marble-like pattern, sticky, pearly-white.

He waited until he caught his breath and pushed Chris away and down. Chris's cheek touched a cold tile and their mixed come. 

"C’mon," John said, putting a foot on the back of Chris's neck and pressing. "Lick it. Lick the spunk of your god. It can't go to waste."

Chris's two tongues darted outside.


End file.
